Twelve 'til Morning
by Intrepignoramus
Summary: Clocks! Always the damn clocks.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Clocks! Always the damn clocks. They perched on heads even before the injured became the dead. Even before the Grimm had finished taking the soul off man, and life from body. I leaned back against a post as clocks raced across the city, casting themselves over like ghosts in haunting.

The town square ran with time. Clocks in the cars, clocks in the houses, clocks in the buildings. People posed as people did. Some walking back home, some sitting on the pavement, yelling alms and whatnot. All the same, clocks rose above their heads like vines choking a branch, twirling gleefully as if driven by a need to announce the message: something bad is going to happen. The question now was, to whom were they addressed to?

Well, it couldn't be me. I was just a random blonde out for stargazing.

The hands pointed heavenwards at the unseen twelve, while Domrémy went on with their lives. It looked like a magic trick, the scene. These things appearing out of the air. If only someone could see them, perhaps it would all disappear like a joke. But then, nobody noticed.

As if receiving the signal, the hands moved synchronously, symphonically. It was a tune that telegraphed an immoveable, inexorable sense of dread. It curdled blood to ice.

 _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

 ** _Eleven. Ten. Nine. Eight._**

The countdown had begun just like New Years. However, this tomorrow everyone looked forward to did not exist in the first place. Fate would not allow it, and the scene played out before me. No one relishes to witness the death of so many, more so if you knew the many. Even the moon, broken as an abused child, was unwilling to spectate, hidden behind the clouds. I felt lonely. Forlorn. A solitary audience to this tragedy.

 ** _Seven. Six. Five._**

"This is not a drill. Please evacuate immediately. This is not a drill," the town speakers blared. Always with the drills. Always with the hurrying. I found that to be quite useless. Besides...

It was too late.

I knew, more than a child's hopes and dreams, that they will die.

They will die tonight.

 ** _Four. Three. Two._**

That simple, glaring truth put the fear in me, for I discovered how quickly everything; house and dog, family and friends, school and marks, love and promises, can fade away. Was it too late to say I wished it were they who survived, instead of me? Was it too much to claim that I could've saved one more? Could've stopped the problem from erupting in the first place?

 ** _One._**

I suppose it didn't matter. Time walked forward, not back. If there's one thing my semblance had taught me, dark as it was, it's that there's not much you can do about the past.

You can only drag yourself forward. Else, you're left behind.

 ** _Twelve._**

The clocks faded teasingly, embers in the ashes.

And.

And.

And.

A bright light. I knew nothing else.

On the night the town of Domrémy, home to tens of thousands of people, was razed to the ground, I saved a life. It was a pathetic little boy's, and I wished I hadn't. Even an ant was worth more than him.

On the night the bombs bloomed, everyone was in the garden, leaning over to smell the flowers. A tea party.

On that dreadful night, the sole uninvited guest was the one spared from the inferno.

What a shame it was me.


	2. A Morning in Vale

-A Morning in Vale-

Rain fell. Just like his faith for the weatherman.

Jaune entered the room soaking, nose red, throat itchy and all his clothes wet with grief, but no bones broken. You would think, that the bastard summer (Jaune says this because it's a lying piece of shit) would stave off the heavy drumming for the next season. When crops and naked trees would bloom in vanity. But this promise of hot days and hotter winds never came, and he dragged his succulent, transparent self through the narrow sidewalks of Vale, feeling lonely and a bit homicidal. It was a good thing the streets were empty.

Setting his clothes on the hamper, Jaune swooped into the bathroom and turned the knob over to red. The steaming water flowed off his body like silken sheets, carrying the tension away on a stream. He stayed in the shower for a time, engrossed with the warmth of the heater, his eternal lover. Heck, it was probably even better than the real thing.

Clad in a towel and bunny slippers, Jaune stepped out into the living room. He glanced at the clock while drying his hair.

It was well past the hour of nine. If this were a normal weekday, it would have been a hopeless situation. Tardiness would be inevitable. Fortunately, today was a holiday (as he discovered thirty minutes ago) - the 50th anniversary of Wcdonald's founding. Thanks to that, he could enjoy this lazy morning for the first time in what felt like forever.

The world was an abject gray, more like evening than morning. It couldn't be called pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. But to the boy that had arrived moments ago, the outside world was irrelevant. To him, all that mattered was his all-consuming sleepiness. If he could spend the rest of the morning dozing in bed, then it was a good day in his book. Whatever plan he had in his itinerary could wait.

"Some R'nR would be nice."

He closed the curtains.

Crawling to bed, he shut his eyes and willed his heart to dance a slumbering tune.

 _Just a few more hours of boring dreams, and then I'll wake up._

His mind sank into oblivion, the bottom of his unconsciousness. Like leaves parting from their branches, sleep instantly swept him away.

 _...Smother me in your breasts, you sack of feathers, and never let go…_

But.

That tiny, insignificant wish was mercilessly crushed.

A series of raps cut through the stillness. It was the unmistakable sound of knuckles striking paned glass. The taps had a rhythm metered by turbulence, a tempo so grating the dead would crawl out of their mounds and move towards another graveyard. Out of sheer habit, his eyes popped open.

"Who the...?"

The window was installed in the living room, forty floors from the condominium lobby. Getting to his room from inside implied a three-minute date with the dreadful elevator. To him, that distance was an ocean and two, perhaps three, tornadoes apart. He often took the stairs.

Getting there from outside, on the other hand, was, frankly, impossible. There were no staircases leading to the bays, and the architects refrained from constructing a path that promoted burglary. It would take rock solid diligence to leap between foundations, sagacious knowledge to pace through undetected, heroic courage to attempt the quarter-mile high heist and psychotic determination to stick with the god-awful plan.

There was one person in his mind insane enough to perform something as trivial as disturbing his sleep.

"That girl…" The boy refrained from cursing aloud, but he was doing so internally.

Life doesn't always hand lemons on a shit-stained platter. Sometimes, they're shoved down your throat. Other times, they're shoved up your ass. This time, it felt like both.

People like her…no that was wrong. She couldn't be lumped with the normal rabble. _Monsters_ like her lived their days with a leg raised and the other on some poor man's back. Their actions weren't defined by something as noble as selfless devotion, but rather, an impulse to find that daily dose of thrill. A chronic case of the boredom virus. And having been exposed to her derisions for more than a year, he knew she wouldn't take kindly to being snubbed. Regardless, he decided to wait it out; remembering that she had the attention span of a lover.

She'd lose interest sooner or later.

The tapping continued. Incessantly. Forcefully. Logic affirmed it would eventually stop, but his patience waned faster than expected.

"Maybe someone will notice?"

The hopes he pinned on others were short-lived. Thinking about it, if she could reach his room with ghost-like precision, then the probability of a witness was as low as the temperature outside. Adding her semblance to the mix, it was pretty much overkill. Perks of having genes that blended perfectly with criminality, he supposed.

"It'd be great if she'd use that brilliance right about now," the boy grumbled.

The clock struck ten, half an hour passing, and the music had somehow turned into dubstep. The glass vibrated in protest, imploring the bedbound blonde to drive the scary DJ away. Said blonde couldn't care less about the furniture's feelings. Heck, he couldn't even handle his own.

"Damn..."

But damn.

Her perseverance was extraordinary.

The longer the window rang, the more demanding it grew.

 _Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

Until finally, he couldn't resist.

"Alright! Alright! I'm coming!" the boy shouted, throwing the sheets aside. He got out of bed, slipped into a coat, and stormed out of the room. By now, the tapping must have reached the hundred mark. Either the person outside had nothing better to do, or they already knew he was home. His pace quickened, eager to stop the ceaseless rounds.

The boy reached the source of his ire and was surprised to see pink and brown beyond the glass. An illusion, he knew, trademarked by the dichromatic color of a certain midget. What was so important that she had to screen herself? Had she been drinking recently? This early in the morning? Was there vodka in her ice cream? Did Roman put her up for this?

 _Fuck it. Life's too complicated to make sense._

Understanding Neo was like understanding Grimm, the antithesis of mankind. You simply couldn't, and any efforts to would be meted out by sanctimonious academics screaming 'heresy!' at your face.

A hand gripped the handle but made no motion to turn, stick caught in a waterwheel.

The boy's instincts screamed that his good morning would wither the second he lifted the glass veil. Neo, unreasonably vindictive, would doubtless lash out in greeting. A misfortune, sure, but it was certainly better than circumvention. Better to hurt less now than hurt more later. Take the hit today, to avoid a beating tomorrow.

It was painful either way.

And so, he did what drivers would do whenever someone farted inside the car.

He opened the window.

Immediately, the illusion broke into several pieces like glass, revealing naked reality. That was when he saw white heeled boots dangling above the window frame. His gaze trailed upwards, past brown jeans and body-hugging corset, to the flaps of a white jacket. The divider had concealed the rest of her body.

"Neo, what are you – bluh!?"

Before he could even express…well, an expression, a streak of pink and brown blurred past him along with a white parasol. The latter smacked his face, snapping his neck back with a nauseating crunch. Tears leaked out of his eyes, as if they'd rather be anywhere but inside. His consciousness was taking the back door as well, but bubbling regret barred it from leaving. Unfaithful shit. If the body was to be beaten, then so too, shall the spirit.

The impact sent him crashing to the floor, spinning the world around like a bottle of jack. He wanted to tap out, throttled by the ringing in his head.

But she wasn't done with him.

A heel landed on his stomach, nearly aligning intestines with spine. He choked a groan as she added a little grinding to her dance routine. She raised the other heel.

 _Is she going to…Oh fuck!_

His body contracted. He jerked, knocking the incoming death tool away from his balls. She missed, hitting his leg. _Fuck_. He barely blocked it. She was fast, but he had the strength and wit. He punched the leg pushing him down, tripping her. Spinning his body upwards in a break dance to avoid another heel. The parasol returned for another go at his face, but he grabbed it while in midair and pulled. She obliged, letting go. He sailed back and anchored feet on ceiling with a light tug of his soul. Auric adhesion, a skillful manipulation of air pressure and friction. It was like slapping a coin on your forehead. Only, less awful and more awe-full.

The intruder recovered with grace as she finished concertinaed – legs crossed, hands over cheeks, butt in the couch, and all the world's happiness in a smile.

"…" Glowing blue eyes glared down on cheeky khaki.

"…" The khaki turned pink, white, then its usual heterochromatic brown and pink. It shifted playfully, challenging.

One.

Five.

Ten.

Seconds passed, and both failed to notice a brown tree growing on the boy's shorts. The boy tensed, anticipating the signal for the next round. The girl gazed fondly, no doubt enjoying his stressed countenance.

It took a while before he felt the absence of hostility, and he dropped in a crouch, head aching, gut burning, feeling like he'd done enough living for a lifetime.

"What do you want Neo?" he growled, throwing the umbrella like a divebombing kingfisher. The show of force went beyond indicating his annoyance and took on overtones of hostility as the vestiges of sleep burned out. She caught it without care and gave him an apologetic smile, complete with softening eyes and a tilt of the head. The boy knew her well enough for the gesture to be any more genuine than a carton of expired milk.

"You're not cute," he remarked dryly.

She pointed to a plastic bag on the table. It wasn't there last time he checked.

"What? What's that?" Straight to the dumb questions.

'Look inside,' she signed. Atlastic sign language, or ASL, was a language Atlesian natives were required to learn by law. Of course they'd sanction it. They invented it after all. It had the standard alphanumeric system, and more than 4000 gestures, complete with mind-jumbling variations. With so complicated a tongue (was that the right word?), it was no wonder Atlesians were such stick-in-the-muds.

The boy, wary but unwilling to fight another round, obeyed. He stood for a moment, gauging the thing for traps, and walked towards the table.

"I didn't know you still buy from the convenience store, Neo. Stingy much?" He observed her for any reaction. Anything to extrapolate on. Things were never so simple with Neopolitan. Once, she gave him a sandwich, and he mindlessly ate it. After devouring the snack, he went to work, drifting lazily through books and records. Suddenly, he started coughing spittle and dropped dead. Shyeah, not really, but his coworkers thought he was.

She rolled her eyes, and the action somehow made the world roll with her.

 _Woah, I think I have a concussion._

'Look inside. It's not poison.' The shameless admission merely reinforced his sense of wariness. Begrudgingly, he opened the bag and pulled out a small, brown container. Hand-sized and cold, it was a food of some sort.

"Haagen-Daz." He read. "Short, sweet, and melts in your mouth."

"Mango? You bought me ice cream?" He looked at her, but availed none a reply. She was reading something on her scroll, and the boy recognized the foolishness of poking the dragon's genitals. His finger brushed against something sharp.

"…Hm? What's this?" There was a blue card taped under the container.

"Happy birthday. Heart-heart." He flipped it over. "Let's go out and eat. Smiley-face."

 _Oh._

 _Ohhhhh._

They say that love and conflict were inseparable. That hostility was just a front to convey emotions people couldn't express plainly. If he followed this logic, then all that pain and sadism was just her version of a hug and a pat on the head.

"You're still not cute." At that, she flipped him the finger. He mimicked her.

'Bruce Tea, 11:30. Don't be late,' she signed, plopping out of the couch and standing near the open window. She turned to disappear, but not before giving Jaune a baleful look. Her eyes became slitted. 'Or else,' she mouthed. The air around her shifted, distorted, and broke like glass. And just like that, she was gone.

He threw the card and bag in the trash bin. "Birthday, huh?" Jaune mumbled, placing the Haagen-Daz inside the freezer. The frost bit his hand, but he paid it no mind. He had handled colder.

"It would be nice if a wish came true for once."

Someone was screaming. Someone outside. Outside the window.

Demon in the wind, it said. Demon in the room.

It clawed as if tracing the contours of his face. Cutting, grazing - it struck with masterful precision. The wordless lyrics, shrill and forceful, raced towards the crescendo, begotten of the dead. A memory came rushing. Scenes of a time before all of this.

" _And what do you wanna be when you become a big man, June?" Ma asked one night._

 _There was no hesitation._

" _A hero." He replied._

The melancholia spurred him to bring the cacophony to its final note. A hand gripped the shaft of the window. "Heh. Sorry Ma," he whispered.

"But I wanna be something else instead."

The window closed shut.


End file.
